weather. There were a few hours when you felt ‘Life is really like this’; you supposed this was happiness, and it was. You thought about it at the time, self-consciously. Then you came back, tired, in the evening, and things went on as before. You said, ‘Last week, when I went to the country, I was happy.’
Now she had outgrown Sunday treats; the river looked always the same, and if it rained, and you stayed indoors, that was no great disaster. After her childhood (after she said to herself, ‘my childhood is over’) events in her imagination became more interesting than anything that happened in the Duplessis household. When her imagination failed her, she wandered the rooms, listless and miserable, destructive thoughts going around in her head. She was glad when it was time for bed and reluctant to get up in the mornings. Life was like that. She would put aside her diaries, consumed with horror at her shapeless days, at the waste of time that stretched before her.
Or pick up her pen: Anne Lucile Philippa, Anne Lucile. How distressed I am to find myself writing like this, how distressed that a girl of your education and refinement can find nothing better to do, no music practice, no embroidery, no healthy afternoon walk, just these death-wishes, these fantasies of the morbid and the grandiose, these blood-wishes, these images, sweet Jesus, ropes, blades and her mother’s lover with his half-dead-already air and his sensual, bruised-looking mouth. Anne Lucile. Anne Lucile Duplessis. Change the name and not the letter, change for worse and worse for it’s much less dull than better. She looked herself in the eye; she smiled; she threw back her head, displaying to her advantage the long white throat that her mother deems will break her admirers’ hearts.
Yesterday Adèle had begun on that extraordinary conversation. Then she had walked into the drawing room and seen her mother slide her tongue between her lover’s teeth, knot her fingers into his hair, flush and tremble and decline into his thin and elegant hands. She remembered those hands, his forefinger touching paper, touching her handwriting: saying Lucile, my sweet, this should be in the ablative case, and I am afraid that Julius Caesar never imagined such things as your translation suggests.
Today, her mother’s lover offered her marriage. When something – blessed event, however strange – comes to shake us out of our monotony – then, she cried, things should happen in ones.
CLAUDE: ‘Of course I have said my last word on the matter. I hope he has the sense to accept it. I don’t know what can have led him to make the proposal in the first place. Do you, Annette? Once it might have been a different story. When I met him at first I took to him, I admit. Very intelligent…but what is intelligence, when someone has a bad moral character? Is basically unsound? He has the most extraordinary reputation… no, no, no. Can’t hear of it.’
‘No, I suppose you can’t,’ Annette said.
‘Frankly, that he has the nerve – I’m surprised.’
‘So am I.’
He had considered sending Lucile away to stay with relations. But then people might put the worst construction on it – might believe she had done something she shouldn’t have.
‘What if…?’
‘If?’ Annette said impatiently.
‘If I were to introduce her to one or two eligible young men?’
‘Sixteen is too young to marry. And her vanity is already great enough. Still, Claude, you must do as you feel. You are the head of the household. You are the girl’s father.’
ANNETTE sent for her daughter, having fortified herself with a large glass of brandy.
‘The letter.’ She clicked her fingers for it.
‘I don’t carry it on my person.’
‘Where then?’
‘Inside Persian Letters.’
An ill-advised merriment seized Annette. ‘Perhaps you would like to file it inside my copy of Les Liaisons Dangereuses.’
‘Didn’t know you had one. Can I read it?’
‘No indeed. I may follow the advice in the foreword, and give you a copy on your wedding night. When, in the course of time, your father and I find you someone to marry.’
Lucile made no comment. How well she hides, she thought – with the help of only a little brandy – a most mortifying blow to her pride. She would almost like to congratulate her.
‘He came to see your father,’ Annette said. ‘He said he had written to you. You won’t see him again. If there are any more letters, bring them straight to me.’
‘Does he accept the situation?’
‘That hardly matters.’
‘Did it not seem proper to my father that I be consulted?’
‘Why should you be consulted? You are a child.’
‘I might have to have a chat with my father. About certain things I saw.’
Annette smiled wanly. ‘Ruthless, aren’t you, my dear?’
‘It seems a fair exchange.’ Lucile’s throat was constricted. On the precipice of these new dealings, she was almost too frightened to speak. ‘You give me time to think. That’s all I’m asking for.’
‘And in return you promise me your infant discretion? What is it, Lucile, that you think you know?’
‘Well, after all, I’ve never seen my father kiss you like that. I’ve never seen anybody kiss anybody like that. It must have done something to brighten your week.’
‘It seems to have brightened yours.’ Annette rose from her chair. She trailed across the room, to where some hothouse flowers stood in a bowl. She swept them out, and began to replace them one by one. ‘You should have gone to a convent,’ she said. ‘It’s not too late to finish your education.’
‘You would have to let me out eventually.’
‘Oh yes, but while you were busy with your plain chant you wouldn’t be spying on people and practising the art of manipulation.’ She laughed – without merriment now. ‘I suppose you thought, until you came into the drawing room, how worldly-wise and sophisticated I was? That I never put a foot wrong?’
‘Oh no. Until then, I thought what a boring life you had.’
‘I’d like to ask you to forget what has happened in the last few days.’ Annette paused, a rose in her hand. ‘But you won’t, will you, because you’re stubborn and vain, and bent on seizing what you – quite wrongly – feel to be your advantage.’
‘I didn’t spy on you, you know.’ She wanted, very badly, to put this right. ‘Adèle dared me to walk in. What would happen if I said yes, I want to marry him?’
‘That’s unthinkable,’ her mother said. One flower, icy-white, escaped to the carpet.
‘Not really. The human brain’s a wonderful thing.’
Lucile retrieved the long-stemmed rose, handed it back to her mother. She sucked from her finger a bead of blood. I may do it, she thought, or I may not. In any event, there will be more letters. She will not use Montesquieu again, but will file them inside Mably’s disquisition of 1768: Doubts on the Natural Order of Societies. Those, she feels, have suddenly become considerable.
III. Maximilien: Life and Times (1787)
MERCURE DE FRANCE, June 1783: ‘M. de Robespierre, a young barrister of great merit, deployed in this matter – which is in the cause of the arts and the sciences – an eloquence and wisdom that give the highest indications of his talents.’
‘I see the thorn that’s in the rose
In these bouquets you offer me…’
Maximilien de Robespierre, Poems
THE CUTTING was growing